


somebody heal me from my pain

by undernightlight



Series: Music Inspirations [15]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26073271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undernightlight/pseuds/undernightlight
Summary: A collection of shorts, each chapter a different BAU team member dealing with the trauma and PTSD brought into their life by their jobs.
Series: Music Inspirations [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1156637
Kudos: 23





	1. matthew simmons

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a big fan of trauma fics, and I love writing things like this, this style I mean, so I thought I'd do just that with the BAU team, because they all struggle with this job from time to time.

He wasn’t in it. He was standing in his kitchen but his mind was elsewhere. Family annihilators always hit him hard, but this was almost too much. Two boys, twin girls, too close to home to shrug off so easily.

The ages were different, different spacing too, but it was too familiar; when he looked at the photos, kids bloody in their beds, parents tied up, forced to watch before slaughtered, he saw his family. He saw Jake in his stripy pajama pants and toy plane, and David in his dinosaur socks that never matched. He saw Chloe and Lily playing together, little balls of energy that would slow for nothing. He saw Kristy, his wonderful, sweet Kristy, having to watch it, surely brought upon them by something he did, an unsub he couldn’t put away, a sibling looking for revenge, a lover scorned beyond reason.

But unlike those pictures, he wouldn’t be there. He would be across the country, too far away to save them, to do anything to protect them from the harsh world he worked in. He’d rush back and he’d be too late, the carpet already stained red and matted down. So much red, everywhere, until it consumed everything inch of him.

A hand on his shoulder jolted him back, like lightning across his skin, and he snapped, turning, grabbing tightly around the wrist, before he realised it was Kristy. He let go, pushing her hand down and pushing himself away, staggering back into the kitchen counter.

“Matt?” Her voice came, so soft and warm, like always. He worked to steady his breathing, unable to reply. “Matt?” She asked again, only concerned, not impatient or annoyed. She approached with slow steps, enough time between each step that he eventually came to register her presence again as she stood in front of him.

His breathing steady enough to speak now, “Kristy?” She nodded, and drew her hand slowly to his face. He melted, falling into an embrace that was always open for him, and her arms wrapped around him with practised ease. “I’m sorry, I just...I lost myself for a minute.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain, but we do have to talk about it, you know that.”

He nodded, turning into her. “Just not yet. Soon.” He felt her nod, but didn’t see. He buried himself in her, her warmth and her smell and her safety, and she let him, knowing he needed it. Her arms around him tightened as his arms around her waist did, pulling closer, as close as possible.

She’d dealt with him like this before, it came with the marriage. it took him years to stop feeling guilty about it, eventually realising that it had to be this way, not just for him but also her, and he was grateful beyond words for all that she did for him. She held him, like she always did like this, and he was oh so grateful.


	2. jennifer jareau

She sat at the edge of Henry’s bed, having just left Michael’s room, gently brushing hair out of his sleeping face. He was so precious when he slept. He was precious all the time, but when he slept, there was something so calm and warm about him; it was like she was looking at a snapshot that would forever stay preserved.

The light from the hallway was partially blocked, and when she turned to look back, she saw Will, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. There was a smile on his face, tired but loving. She took this as a sign to stand and leave her son, her fingers lingering a moment across his face still unmarred from life.

Will guided her away and to their room, and hand on her back keeping her from turning around and spending all night at her sons’ sides. He sat her on the edge of their bed and knelt down in front of her, loving hands running along her, her arms and legs and hands and face, so gentle and kind.

“How you feelin’?” He asked.

She shrugged, the honest truth.

The case had been rough, more than she had thought it would be but for no particular reason. The unsub had issues with his parents, feelings of neglect and abandonment when in reality it wasn’t quite like that; the unsub believe his parents didn’t care about him, that they never wanted him and abandoned him, when in reality they loved him so very much, working so hard, two jobs and long hours and extra shifts, to give him the best they could. Those missing hours of backyard playing and messy spaghetti dinners felt like gaping holes to the unsub, that no new bookbag or soccer ball could fill.

“Am I a good mom?” She asked after a slowly spreading silence had begun to fill the room; Will had waited patiently, knowing she’d speak eventually, he could see it on her face.

“O' course you are.” He took her hands in his. “Why are you askin' this now?”

She knew why, but didn’t have the energy or mental power to say it all aloud, so she clung to her husband. “What if this job does them more harm than good?”

“JJ, they’re so incredibly proud of you. You don’t hear them when you’re gone, but they’re proud of you. You’re their hero, going out there, savin' people’s lives, puttin' away those bad guys.”

“But what if…” And she didn’t know what else she wanted to say. Will swiped his thumb across her cheek. She had started crying, silent tears but still a concern for him.

“No what ifs. I know it weighs on you, when you miss important things, but they understand. Michael’s young I know, but Henry knows. Sometimes he’s sad if you miss those soccer games, but he knows you’re out there so other people can go to their kid’s games in peace, and not have to worry about the bad lurking around the corner because that bad was stopped by you.”

She nodded. It didn’t settle everything, and Will knew that, he could see it. He pulled her up and hugged her, gently rocking gently from side to side. She let herself continue those silent tears, still hurting, but at least in Will’s arms.


	3. spencer reid

His brain felt like scramble eggs, and he couldn’t make sense of anything on the pages in front of him. He loved reading, but he couldn’t focus on the words, and he doubted his brain would even let him manage a picture book, if he had one, which he didn’t, but it didn’t matter because he very much imagined that if he did have one, the colours would blend into one blurry mess.

He didn’t have a headache per say, but there was something in his skull that was uncomfortable, like he was overheating, like an old computer. Maybe that was it. He was just burned out, too old to be the boy genius he’s still expected to be.

Deep down he knew that wasn’t exactly the problem he was facing, rather, he was being haunted. He couldn’t get their face out of thoughts. If he had seen the pattern sooner, if he had figured it out just a bit quicker, then maybe they’d still be alive. No, they would definitely still be alive.

Kal Holland was only twenty, studying abroad in the US for the year. They were a film student with a passion for editing and cinematography. Their grades were good, above average, and they worked hard. An introvert with few friends, but those friends were close to Kal, and were heartbroken by the loss. Most of Kal’s friends were in the UK, and they were home alone when the incident happened. They were still alive when they got there, only just, but life slipped away on the journey to the hospital.

He’d been so close to figuring out, but he couldn’t see the pattern. It had been staring him in the face but he couldn’t see it, and someone lost their life.

They weren’t supposed to blame themselves for things like this. They were taught that at the Academy, and taught again while he was training for the BAU, and Emily reminded them all enough times. And most of the time, Spencer managed. He was emotional, at times perhaps too emotional, but most of the time he was able to keep his guilt away from his work like this, but it felt different this time.

He should’ve seen it. The profile predicted it all perfectly and he should’ve seen it but he didn’t, not until it was too late and Kal Holland was dead, suspended upside down from their ankles, extreme exsanguination, the carpet around sticky.

Spencer set his book down. His head really did hurt now, an ache spreading across his forehead, a tight, almost drilling sensation in his temples. He wasn’t one for pain meds, not regularly, but he needed to, something told him it would only get worse.

His bed was too far, a whole room away, and he doubted he’d sleep much, the case still on his mind, so he laid on his couch, staring at the ceiling. He was feeling sorry for himself, he knew that, but someone was dead because of him.

His dreams weren’t haunted by the crime scene photos, by the blood and the violence, but by the video a classmate had shown, a behind the scenes type, and Kal was laughing and smiling, awkwardly hiding behind a friend, but so very happy, and so very much alive.


	4. luke alvez

He woke up in a cold sweat, breathing heavy, arms slightly shaking as they pushed him up off the mattress. It took him a few moments of staring down in darkness to remember where he was: he was in his bed, in his apartment, in Virginia and he was safe. He consciously registered he was safe, but his brain still wasn't quite sure, those fight or flight hormones still pumping, telling every fibre in him to run. 

He collapsed back into his bed, heart still running ahead and brain still fuzzy. If Roxy had been here, she would've been with him by now, whimpering and nuzzling into him. She was protective of him like that, just as he was of her, but she wasn't here, away with the sitter for the weekend, so he was alone. 

Sometimes, he wished he had someone, someone to hold when he felt like, or someone that would hold him. He wished he had someone there to tell him it would all be okay in the end, that the pain was temporary and it'd all give way to something better, a bright warm light at the end of this dark, blood stained tunnel. 

It wasn't easy, doing it alone. 

He was Ranger, a fugitive tracker, and BAU profiler. His life was coated in PTSD and trauma and he knew it, but he couldn't escape it. Nothing he'd tried worked, so he’d settled on doing nothing but letting it happen, dealing with it whatever way he could.

He should get up, change his shirt, maybe change his sheet, but he didn’t. Instead he just laid there, still struggling to catch his breath. He reached for a pillow and pulled it to him, arms curling round, fingers and fists curling tight around, clutching, hoping that it would somehow help, but it was just a reminder of how alone he was.

He couldn’t even talk himself down. Whatever nightmare he’d been having to awaken him in the first place was gone from his mind now, though the after effects remain present. He couldn’t remember so he couldn’t even try to rationalise whatever had spiked him. If it was Ranger duty, he could try to tell himself he hadn’t been a Ranger in years. He hadn’t been a fugitive hunter in a long while either. If it was a case, he could try to rationalise it, to say it was done, the unsub dead or in prison, the lost people gone and not coming back, no matter how painful.

At this point, he wasn’t even making sense to himself. He was tired, he needed sleep, but he doubted it would come.

Feelings like this brought him back to a dark point in his life, a time he wished he could forget, but it was a part of him, ingrained in him now. He wanted to bury those feelings, hide them away and never feel them again, and if he had to give up all his feelings then he’d bury them too.

He just buried his face in the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone curious the title comes from the song "holes in the sky" by M83, and it's like, a sad bop, I recommend


	5. penelope garcia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw/ human trafficing + rape/noncon with minors
> 
> I guess it is canon compliant with the show, so would fit under that tag, but it's mentioned a bit, so I wanted to put an extra warning since it's a sensitive topic (understandably of course)

She surrounded herself with as many colourful and fluffy and cute little things as she could because it was the only thing that could help distract her from the horrors of the online world.

She saw so much, so many things that would cause others to scream, to look away mortified, to wish to unsee it, and something, she did that too, but it was her job to trudge through knee deep internet sludge. It wasn’t fun, she didn’t enjoy it, but she did her best to keep her spirits.

Joking with her teammates was as much for her as it was for them, bringing them up from dark places, keeping them all from sinking in their respective sludge. She hoped it worked, but she was never really sure; they might have just been laughing through it all like she was, laughing with the jokes to distract, to keep afloat.

She went to some horrid places for their last case. Women were being abducted, some not even yet adults, to sell off to men. Three bodies dropped, one just a seventeen year old girl, still planning for college. She wanted to go to Howard, like her father.

Human trafficking case always got to her. It was disgusting and terrifying. The pictures she saw there, people like commodities to sell and own, women and children, forced to live less than human beings. Some just posted simple pictures, still horrid, but she could sometimes pretend she wasn’t seeing the rope keeping them from running off or the chains keeping her to the ground. Most pictures were far worse. Blood and violence. Language no one should ever have to hear. Grown men forcing themselves onto underage girls, children. There were often videos too.

Whether the team knew the extent of what she saw, she didn’t know, and she wouldn’t tell them. They saw so much horror, the crime scene photos, dead bodies on person, the smell of decaying flesh, no, she couldn’t do that, she couldn’t be a part of that. Maybe it was fair this way; they have real, tangible horror, and she had the digital kind.

It didn’t make it easier to swallow however.

She reached for one of the toys on her desk, a small, squeaky black and white cat. Luke got it for her. It was her newest addition. Her desk was littered with trinkets and toys and collectable souvenirs brought back by the team, snowglobes and mugs and funky little bobble heads. They brought her joy; they were her floaties in all the dark sludge, keeping her head above, helping her move forward and threw, and she was forever thankful.

She gathered her things, ready for home, slipping the squeaky cat into her coat pocket for comfort, not that Newbie needed to know that of course.


	6. david rossi

He snapped out of it when the mug hit the floor and shattered. It was a nice mug too, and he spent a few moments staring at it before he went about picking up the large chunks of porcelain, before sweeping up the smaller chips.

He was tired. He hadn’t slept much and was running on the fumes of his last cup of coffee that was at least a few hours ago - Kystrall was still home then, before she went to spend the day with her daughter. He was home alone, which gave him plenty of time to meander aboud and tidy up the mug mess.

Instead of brewing another pot, he went for something stronger, reaching for the central decanter on the drinks cabinet, and grabbing a glass that matched in design. The set was a gift from Aaron, long, long ago. it was one of the few things he still had of Aaron.

It had been long enough that perhaps the guilt should’ve left him, that he should understand that there was nothing he could do, but he felt guilty, still. He should’ve been there, should’ve been able to do something to stop it, to protect him, but he couldn’t and Aaron left. It was witness protection, but it wasn’t like he came back, he didn’t even really call them anymore.

He got it, staying with Jack, protecting his son, was his priority, but now that it’s over, Aaron could at least call, right? But he practically vanished. He’d get a call every one in a while, but he hadn’t had one in two months.

Mr Scratch was dangerous, they all knew it, they all knew what the man was capable of, but it still got to him, the fact that they couldn’t do anything about it sooner, that it got as far as it did.

He downed his second drink and poured a third. It was barely the afternoon.

He still felt haunted by it, by Scratch and by George Foyet. He and Aaron had a close friendship, coupled with their work experience, their years in service. He had his fair share of krippling cases, those he couldn’t let go, those he couldn’t save, and still, thinking about those poor lost souls caused a lump in his throat, sometimes a headache if he thought too long. Something about seeing it on a friend was at times worse. No, it was always worse. They were feeling all that pain and horror, guilt and frustration, but he knew there was nothing he could do to ease that pain, to take that guilt away, and then they were both drowning.

A headache was forming as he downed that third drink. He should slow down, he hadn’t even moved away from the drinks cabinet. He poured a fourth and moved to the couch.

When Krystall got home, he was going to cook her dinner, take his mind off things and because she deserved it. She put up with a lot being married to him, and he was grateful. And after dinner, he was going to sit with her listening to music, maybe smoke a cigar, drink from the Hotch glasses together.

Maybe if he talked about Aaron it would alleviate some of that guilt. Maybe not, but he owed it to Aaron, to keep talking about him, to consider them still friends after all this time.


	7. tara lewis

Cases with addicts always did hit a little closer to home that she'd like, but she didn't really have control over that, not like she wished she did. 

A failed marriage and a failed engagement. The marriage though, was the only one wrapped up in the addiction riddled stress dreams she'd have every night until the case was finished. 

She could analyse the dreams. She knew why she was having them and what they meant and what they signified, but that didn't mean she could stop them, no matter how badly she wanted them to. 

But she could only analyse the ones she remembered, and more often than not, once she awoke, they were gone from her like smoke out the window: it might not be seen, but it still lingers, that burnt smell that gets stuck in your throat. 

She'd feel it through the case. The days were often long and tiring, and the occasions they stayed up all night, running on shitty coffee and sugar filled snacks, were somehow worse. The anxiety of the impending stress dream loomed over. Sometimes it was an extra motivator to get the case done, to take down the unsub and save the victims before it's too late, but sometimes it was just a distraction. 

The case was over though now. The unsub with addict mommy issues, caught and in police custody, was a relief. She could hope the dreams would go away, and they would in a few days for sure, but she wanted them to stop. If she had to suffer through them during the case then fine, but once the case was done, they could at least go away. Maybe they would this time, maybe they wouldn't.

She scratched at her forehead, a headache coming through. The caffeine and lack of a rational sleep pattern - whatever that meant as a BAU profiler - was catching up with her. She rifled through her draw for a bottle of painkillers. It was nearly empty. She took them down dry before finishing off the mug of now cold coffee, making a mental note to keep to water for the next few days.

Who knew what the next few days would bring though. Maybe they'd be lucky and be case free, but that never seemed likely. They'll be called in on a case, and so often it was murder, and then she'd be back of that shitty, police station coffee, but it would be enough to get her through, at least until the next case, and the case after that, and then the one after that.

It didn't end, it never would, but they did good in the world, the team, they helped people, saved them, stopped bad things from happening and put away bad people. She had to remember that. And she had to remember that cases were different, and that soon, her addiction trauma stress dreams would leave her, and she could at least try to get eight hours of sleep.


	8. emily prentiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It felt fitting that Emily should round out the chapters, and that hers is the longest - only the best for out unit chief (still love you Aaron)

She didn’t have a drinking problem, sometimes it was just nice to sit down with a glass, or bottle, of wine, and pretend that she worked a normal job, one not soaked in pain and misery and death, and she had a normal, mundane life, one so many people would get bored off, because sometimes, it felt like she needed that.

She loved her job, would’ve trade it for anything, but it was heavy. It took a lot, for all of them, to go in every day, to do this job, to know that at any moment they could be called out to a random place in the US, big city or small town, to investigate something horrid. Sometimes a kidnapping, but so often it was murder and mutilation that drew them to location.

There were times that she couldn’t stomach it, but at this point, she’d seen nearly everything; she could never say she’d seen it all, because whenever she thought it, she would be horrendously surprised. But less it was about being about to stomach the gore and the violence, but more the thoughts that humanity could be so cruel, that people could do such horrid things to other people, and far too often for things that were avoidable or manageable.

Her background music was quiet, something slow and gentle. On some nights, she’d fall asleep to music like this, but not tonight.

The case had been long and rough. It was violent, but they’d seen far, far worse. No, what stuck with her were the emotions. He had so much hate within, spawned from small slights what he bottled, taking every mole hill and making it a mountain that he would climb to prove everybody around him they were wrong. Even when they asked him, he wasn’t sure who he was trying to prove himself to, his early motivations getting lost in a sea of drowning hate and despair and jealousy. She could feel it radiating off him, and it was genuinely terrifying.

To hold some much inside for so long, so eventually lose what made you human to begin with, was not something she ever wanted to think about, and yet they, as a team, came face to face with it more than most. It was their job to deal with people like that, that had lost a part of themselves long ago to something primal and predatory, that part in their brain that connected them to morality, but it was still scary, to face that so regularly.

It affected her, more than she’d ever let her team onto, though she was sure she wasn’t as subtle as she hoped she was. Dave had called her out on it more than once, and sometimes spoke about how Hotch had dealt with it, or how he hadn’t, and Dave had to be there to remind him, to help him pick up whatever pieces were left on the floor. She was grateful Dave was there for her too, because sometimes she needed it.

Her team was wonderful, a random grouping of people becoming a chosen family. They all had trauma, they all had baggage, they all had moments - at least one moment, whether a second long or days or months - where they doubted. Moments where they doubted if they’d made the right choice, whether that shot was really necessary, whether if done better, they could’ve saved at least one more person. Moments where they doubted their career choice, whether they were really cut out for the FBI, whether they should give up their badge and be done with it.

She was thankful for herself, and for her team, that they were only moments passing through.


End file.
